In solitude
Many miles from the next housing
In the gleams of a beech wood fire,
A plain, sharp mind absorbs His lines,
Pursuing eyes of a spy mutilate the picture
To issue, 'His quiet voice has never risen.'
In desolation
Secluded from recuperating sections
In a muffled ward for the dying,
A person's breath is softening, fainting,
Toxic drugs freeze the face in agony
To proof, 'His peace does not exist.'